Chapter 5

Three days of silence passed before Dante came home with a box.

It was a large, black velvet box with the logo of a French designer emblazoned in gold foil.

He placed it on the bed.

I was sitting by the window, staring blindly at a book I hadn't turned the page of in an hour. My leg was still bandaged, a constant throb reminding me of the kitchen incident.

We hadn't spoken since then.

He had taken to the guest room. Or maybe he didn't sleep here at all. I had stopped checking.

"For you," he said.

His voice was devoid of emotion. It was a transactional offering. A cold peace treaty.

I looked at the box. "What is it?"

"A dress," he replied. "For the Gala on Saturday."

The Outfit's annual charity gala. The night where murderers played at being philanthropists.

"I'm not going," I said.

"You are," Dante said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You are the Capo's wife. You will be by my side."

She has to go. It keeps the rumors at bay.

Rumors that his marriage was failing. Rumors that he was sleeping with Sofia.

I stood up, limping slightly, and walked to the bed.

I opened the box.

The dress was stunning. Emerald green silk, backless, with a slit that would show off my good leg. It was exactly my size. It was exactly my style.

I reached out to touch the fabric.

And then I smelled it.

Vanilla. Cheap, cloying vanilla.

My hand froze mid-air. I leaned closer, inhaling sharply. It wasn't just on the fabric. It was embedded in the fibers.

Someone had worn this. Someone had sprayed perfume on her neck while wearing this dress.

Sofia.

The image flashed in my mind. Sofia, twirling in front of a mirror. Dante watching her.

Does it fit?

Like a glove, Dante. Do you like it?

Take it off. It's for Elena.

He had let her try it on. He had bought a dress for his wife and let his mistress model it first. I was getting sloppy seconds. I was wearing the skin she had shed.

Nausea rose in my throat, violent and acidic. I slammed the lid of the box shut.

"Did she look good in it?" I asked.

My voice was dead calm.

Dante stiffened. "What?"

"Sofia," I said, looking up at him. "Did she look good in my dress?"

Dante's eyes shifted. A microscopic movement. But I saw it.

How does she know?

"She was at the boutique," Dante said, his voice tight. "She helped me pick it out. She held it up to check the length."

"Liar," I whispered.

"I am not lying!" Dante snapped. "Why are you so obsessed with her?"

"Because you smell like her!" I screamed. "My dress smells like her! My house smells like her! My entire life reeks of her!"

I grabbed the box and shoved it off the bed. It hit the floor with a heavy thud.

"I am not wearing that," I said. "And I am not going to your gala."

Dante stepped forward, his face dark with fury. "You will wear it," he snarled. "And you will smile. And you will pretend to be a dutiful wife. Or so help me God, Elena..."

"Or what?" I challenged him. "You'll kill me? Go ahead. It would be a mercy."

Dante stared at me. His chest heaved. He looked like he wanted to shake me. Or kiss me. Or strangle me.

I just want peace. Why can't she just give me peace?

"If you want peace," I said, answering his unspoken thought, "then let me go."

Dante froze. "What?"

"An annulment," I said. "Let me go. You can have Sofia. You can have the penthouse. You can have the peace."

Dante's face went blank. Cold. The mask was back.

"No," he said.

"Why?"

"Because you are mine," he said. "Till death."

He turned and walked out of the room. He didn't slam the door. He closed it softly. Like he was closing a casket.

I stood there, staring at the closed door. He wouldn't let me go. He would keep me here, tormented and humiliated, until I withered away.

I looked down at the dress box on the floor.

I wasn't going to wither.

I walked to the closet and pulled out a suitcase. I didn't pack clothes. I packed cash. I packed my passport.

I packed the small revolver my father had given me on my eighteenth birthday.

I wasn't going to the Gala. I was going to the one place where the devil couldn't find me. Or so I hoped.

I pulled out my phone and texted Gianna.

Tonight. The train station. 1 AM.

The reply came ten seconds later.

I'm in.

I looked at the wedding ring on my finger. The diamond was huge, flawless, and cold. I pulled it off.

I placed it on the nightstand, right next to the vanilla-scented dress.

"Till death," I whispered to the empty room.

I grabbed my bag.

"I choose life."